


Not-So-Silent Night

by gritsinmisery



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-07
Updated: 2008-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gritsinmisery/pseuds/gritsinmisery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas Eve stakeout</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not-So-Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elfbert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/gifts).



> For the Armed Bastards exchange at [](http://community.livejournal.com/martianholiday/profile)[**martianholiday**](http://community.livejournal.com/martianholiday/), for [](http://elfbert.livejournal.com/profile)[**elfbert**](http://elfbert.livejournal.com/). Prompts: a stakeout going wrong, “I can ‘ear something movin’, Ray!” Beta'd by the ever-lovin' [](http://candesgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**candesgirl**](http://candesgirl.livejournal.com/) .

Not-So-Silent Night

Chris sucked in the last drag off his cigarette, exhaling while he stubbed it out. “So why were we picked to do a stake-out on Christmas Eve, then?” he asked his partner, who was sitting next to him in the driver’s seat of the notoriously rubbish – and currently very cold – green Marina.

Rolling his eyes, Ray crossed his arms and let out a snort. “Because the Guv knows yer mum don’t serve Christmas dinner until late afternoon, and anyway, if she gets ‘er knickers in a twist over summat ‘e asks you to do, ‘e can always send Tyler over to charm ‘er ‘round.”

It was 3:30 AM Christmas Day; even those devout souls attending midnight services had long since gone home to bed. The decorations in the windows of the rows of shops lining the street where they sat were completely dark. Even the street lamps, placed further apart than actually afforded good lighting of the road, seemed somehow dimmer than earlier in the evening, as if they too were affected by the cold and the late hour.

Their coffee was also long gone, and Ray’s pack of cigarettes was whittled down to a precious few that he was determined to make last through the night. Trying desperately to stay awake, he started singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas” under his breath as he wiped the fog off the interior of the front windscreen for the umpteenth time that night.

Chris, who thought Ray had a nice voice and didn’t sing often enough, bobbed his head in time to the tune, but interrupted about halfway through the French hens. “Why wouldn’t the blaggers be ‘ome in bed tonight like everyone else?”

“Because they’re smart enough to figure that nobody will be out tonight, and they know that the bank won’t open until day after tomorrow, by which time they’ll be long gone. Makes it a perfect time, eh?” Ray’s lecture ended with a sarcastic tone.

Chris certainly wanted to know who to take his complaint to should this ‘perfect’ plan not come to pass and he ended up freezing his arse off on Christmas Eve for nothing. “And who says this is gonna ‘appen?”

“My snout, and one of the Guv’s, too.” Raising his eyebrows as if daring Chris to doubt his sources, Ray stared across the car at the younger man.

Chris thought about it a minute and shook his head. “Seems to me that if they’ve let two separate snouts know they’re doin’ it, they’re not all that smart.” He cocked his head to the side. “Or maybe they told the snouts wrong on purpose, and they’re asleep somewhere warm right now after havin’ a good laugh about us out ‘ere in the cold. They could come tomorrow night instead, an’ we won’t be ‘ere since we’ll think the whole thing was wrong.”

Ray looked distressed. “Great, you div, now we gotta come back tomorrow night if it don’t ‘appen tonight.” He turned back to stare hard out the windscreen, as if he could _think_ the criminals into suddenly appearing, to prevent that scenario. Picking his song back up with the golden rings, he was completely unaware of having skipped the turtledoves. Chris thought better of mentioning it.

Ray didn’t make it through the swans before Chris exclaimed, “I can ‘ear something movin’, Ray!”

“Probably just a cat in some rubbish bins.” He started in on day eight, and realized he couldn’t remember if it was supposed to be maids or ladies or lords.

Chris didn’t give him a chance to decide. “No, really, it sounds bigger’n that. Came from in there.” He pointed down the space between the shops just behind where they were parked.

Rolling his eyes again, Ray sighed. “Fine, I’ll go check it out. You stay ‘ere and keep an eye out; if we miss summat because we’re both chasin’ a moggie, the Guv’ll knock us about so ‘ard we’ll ‘ave to drink yer mum’s Christmas dinner through a straw.” He shouldered open the always-reluctant driver’s side door, closed it as quietly as possible – in other words, with a loud thunk – and headed down the alley where Chris had pointed.

His eyes were adjusted to the little light provided by the street lamps, but it got darker the further in he went. Stepping cautiously, straining to see, he worked his way slowly down to a fence with a locked gate that protected a car park. “Nothin’, not even a cat. Bloody ‘ell,” he muttered and turned back. His next step landed on something slick, and his attempts to maintain his footing sent him tumbling, arms wheeling, into a stack of cardboard boxes next to a couple of metal rubbish bins. The sliding boxes knocked the bins over as well, their metallic crashes echoing off the walls of the buildings on either side.

“Shit.” Ray slowly threw off the cardboard, pulled himself back upright, and hurried back up the alley to the car. If the blaggers had been listening closely at all, he’d just given his presence away, which made him even more disgusted than just being cold and clumsy had done.

He yanked hard at the sticky door and slid into the driver’s seat, ready to blast his partner so that his misery could have company. “Nowt, y’ pillock. Yer ‘earin’…”

The passenger’s seat was empty.

“Chris?” he asked, blinking at the torn vinyl seat, then shouted, “Chris!” He peered in the back seat. It was empty as well.

Frantically he forced his door open again and nearly fell out onto the pavement. He stood up and leaned against the top of the car, staring up and down the street. “Chris! Oi, Christopher!” he called, not caring any more about keeping quiet.

The car rocked beneath him, and a muffled thumping came from the boot.

Rushing to the back of the car, he hit the boot in the proper spot that would release the catch and let him yank it open. Inside, Chris lay on his side, looking up with a dazed expression on his face.

“What’n ‘ell…?” was all Ray could say.

Chris shook his head, then winced and raised a hand to the back of it. “Dunno. There was this ‘omeless bloke, beggin’, and I looked away from ‘im for a second to go after my wallet. Next thing I knew I was in ‘ere, and you were callin’ for me.”

Ray stuck his hand down to pull Chris out of the boot. “You great nancy… twonk! Four o’clock Christmas mornin’, yer on a stakeout, and you don’t suspect someone walkin’ about in the cold? Yer lucky all he did was bash you on the ‘ead. Lemme see,” he finished, as he steadied Chris on his feet. Poking through Chris’ hair, he hit a lump that made Chris hiss.

“Do you still ‘ave yer wallet?” he asked. Chris patted his trouser pocket and nodded. “Double lucky, then. Dunno ‘ow he got the boot open, though… So, what made you think to give this bloke money, instead of ‘is own pair of ‘cuffs and a night in the cells?” Ray continued to lecture as he held Chris’ elbow while they walked to the front of the car. Chris was still putting a foot wrong every two or three steps.

As they reached the door, Chris looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Bad luck to turn away beggars on Christmas. Might be Jesus in disguise.”

Chris’ words took Ray back long ago to his early childhood, when his mother would set an extra place at the table on Christmas Day for the same reason. Smiling down fondly at the younger man, Ray wiggled the door until it opened. “Yer too sentimental by ‘alf.” He half-pushed at Chris’ chest and Chris fell into his seat. “Now sit ‘ere while I go see if those pillocks decided you were no threat and they could get on with their thievin’, or if me bangin’ about in the alley scared ‘em off.” Rummaging under Chris’ seat, he came up with a torch and clicked it on.

“Should I call for back-up?”

Ray grimaced and shook his head. “If I see ‘em, I’ll wave at you. Otherwise, anybody who comes out ‘ere tonight for nowt’ll take the piss at us for months.” He pushed Chris’ foot clear of the door jam with one of his own and slammed the door shut.

The torchlight through the front windows of the bank showed nothing out of the ordinary inside, and all the exterior doors were still locked when Ray circled the building, giving each a tug. He walked back to the car and slid into the driver’s seat. “Well, either the bloke what coshed you weren’t one of them, or they gave it up when they ‘eard me fallin’ about the alley. Either way, there’s nowt goin’ on in the bank. Best we get you ‘ome then, before you fall over in yer seat. Unless yer really ‘urt, and I need to take you to A &amp; E… ‘Ow many fingers?” Ray asked, and flipped Chris the bird.

Chris blinked owlishly. “Two, an’ me mum would say that’s downright blasphemous on Christmas Day.”

“Right, ‘ome it is, then.”


End file.
